


Threading the Needle

by ausmac



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-08-23 13:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8330263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/pseuds/ausmac
Summary: One is an Alpha and a leader, the other is an Omega and a leader - and it just gets more difficult from there...





	1. Chapter 1

He studies his reflection in the wall mirror, noting the signs of stress there that it was unlikely anyone else would notice.  His face is a scarred pattern of flesh stretched taut over sharp angled bones.  He is frequently tired, his eyes often shadowed.  Even his son would be hard put to see any difference in him.  Softness is not something Varian Wrynn is noted for, either in looks or behaviour.

Yet he can see the signs, just as he can feel them.  His eyes narrow frequently when there is no glare, usually from a headache striking at each temple like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil.  Pound, pound, pound, it goes on for hours and none of his healers can ease it.  Like an overfilled gourd, the pain spills out in various ways; headaches, emotions that too often explode in tempers and lack of patience.  He’s known for his frequent harsh nature.  Over the years he’d found it was safer and simpler to hide behind a reputation of a sharp temperament and a dangerous set of moods.  It was a defensive armour he’d learned to wear, unwillingly, out of necessity.

He curses softly, uncorking the small bottle on his dresser.  With a look of distaste he swallows it down and wipes his mouth.  The timing of the meeting is unfortunate.  At such times he prefers to stay at home and resolve his needs in privacy.  This time he cannot prevaricate and as much as he dislikes relying on the potion, he has no choice.  He knows he will pay for it later, with worsening headaches and actual pain.  Just another sacrifice he makes for the good of his people.

Despite the protection the potion normally provides, he’s in Dalaran for no more than an hour when he realises he is in serious trouble.

 

News of the Horde’s attendance draws him out of the meeting room to the balcony overlooking the street to assess who had accepted the invitation of the Kirin Tor.  The numbers are equal, as required, and it takes only a few moments to see the Horde leaders.  Of course, it would be Hellscream.  He stands head and shoulders above the rest of his group, a looming presence who studies those around him with distain.

But it is what happens when his head turns upwards and his eyes light on Varian that brings the King suddenly rigidly upright.  He has never before been so close to Garrosh Hellscream, and never when he is on the verge of a Heat.  Those golden feral eyes focus on him and flare with a suddenly savage interest.   Because, of course, they would, in the way of things for a powerful Alpha sensing an Omega in near-Heat.

Varian realises he has backed away without thinking as his back impacts a wall.  He also notes in a small, shattered part of his mind that the potion, that normally dampens his Heat, has been annulled.  For all the good it has done, he might well have not taken it.  The power of that Alpha blows through its effect like a sword through parchment.

He forces himself to turn, noting Jaina’s look of surprise.  She’d seen his abrupt retreat though she obviously had no idea about its cause.  “Headache,” he mutters, which is true enough as he clutches his head.  “I’ll  be in my rooms until the meeting starts.”  He sees her frown but forestalls questions by beating a hasty retreat.  He can almost sense the Orc’s pleased humour.  Distance will lessen the problem but not remove it and he knows he must attend the upcoming meeting.  How he can do it and retain any sort of control he has no idea.

As he hurries up the stairs and into his room, he wonders if Jaina could help.  She is a powerful mage but she has no idea of Varian’s state.  He sits on the bed and tries to calm his jangling nerves.  He remembers how kind Tiffin had been when he had married her for political necessity and it had only been with Khadgar’s assistance that they had been able to make Anduin, his necessary heir.  But Khadgar was far away and he has no idea if there was anything that could be done to stop the power of this natural process.

He cannot risk another draught even if he had one to hand; the aftereffects are always debilitating and taking a second will cause convulsions.  He knows he must somehow endure until the talks are over and he can find some suitable willing stranger Alpha to relieve his needs.  There are places he can go, places he has found over a lifetime of Heats where his identity is disguised and he simply an Omega in Heat needing relief.  But none of those places are in Dalaran.

He had never been unable to understand the odd biological choice of making him an Omega.  He is a King, after all, the son of a King, the father of a future King, a warrior and a leader.  Omegas are normally gentler, softer individuals, most often women who partner with strong Alpha men who protect and cherish them.  He is a fighter, he needs no one to protect or cherish him.  It always felt as if the Cosmos had played some perverse jest on him to put such a burden on him when he already bore so many.  And in all his life he had never met an Alpha stronger than himself, and had never known the absolute satisfaction of being with a sexual partner his equal.

Despite the worry Varian manages to snatch an hour’s rest before the meeting is due to start its first session.  He washes away the gathered perspiration, dresses in comfortable cloth and leather, still formally decorated in Alliance colours but more suited to discussions.   He ventures downstairs and over to the rooms set aside for the talks in the Violet Hold, greeting various friends and fighting companions along the way.  To the world he will seem his usual self.  Inside, he is a tightly wound nerve waiting for the first touch of that arrogant Alpha presence.

And it makes itself utterly known as soon as he enters the conference room.  He does not even have to look to know where Garrosh Hellscream sits; the air seems to vibrate with his powerful aura.  And Varian deliberately does not acknowledge him but sits in his place at the head of the Alliance party, rearranges the papers before him and reads the itinerary.  Or attempts to read it, but the words run together and seem to be in some foreign tongue he does not know.  He does know that Garrosh is watching him, he can feel the Alpha’s eyes boring into his skull.  He realises finally that he cannot avoid that small confrontation and he raises his eyes and looks across the table at the monstrous Orc.

It is a bad idea, he realises, because now he is, he cannot look away.  The predator who is Hellscream has his entire attention fixed on Varian, unblinking and feral.  He doesn’t twitch a muscle but Varian feels as if he is being held in place by an unseen grasp and he pushes backwards against it, eyes narrowing.  And Garrosh smiles then, and runs a large tongue over his prominent tusks.  Varian’s fists clench as he realises this is going to be a very bad day.  The challenge offered could not have been more obvious if Hellscream had shouted it out loud.

And so it proves.  He leaves much of the talking to the rest of the party.  They know his wishes and are accustomed to him allowing them to speak first, to open the talks so that he can input his own requirements or responses further along.  This time, however, he is barely able to talk, as it is all he can do to maintain an outward appearance of normalcy.  And when the talks break for lunch he stands hastily, gives Jaina some excuse of the headache needing attention, and hurries from the room.

He realises he is lost at one point, turned around in one of the corridors and he goes to find his way back to the main stairs.  As he turns a corner he runs into a large, heavy body and Garrosh’s Alpha power washes over him like a sudden rainstorm.  Hands latch onto his arms and he looks up into the Orc’s intently watching eyes.

He snarls in furious frustration.  “Take your hands off me, Orc.”

For all the good it does, he may as well not have spoken.  Garrosh moves forward, backing him up against the wall, standing so close he is almost touching Varian.  But not quite.  “Can life be any better?” Garrosh says, dark eyes half-closed as he drinks in the Omega Heat.  “Varian Wrynn, High King of the Alliance…an Omega.  And in Heat.  Wonderful.”

Retreat seems the best option, and Varian stomps on Garrosh’s foot as he pulls himself aside.  All that earns him is a harder grip and being twisted around towards a nearby door.  Garrosh kicks the door open to reveal a large storeroom, unoccupied.  He drags Varian inside and slams the door closed with one foot.  At that moment Varian misses his sword.  Or any weapon – a club, a mace, a dagger, anything, but all he has is rage and his natural strength.  He punches Garrosh in the guts, drawing a grunt from the orc, and kicks out at his knee.  But his soft suede boots do little to stop the Orc Warchief from pressing forward.  Varian’s hands are grabbed at the wrists and reefed backwards behind him and then he is drawn against Garrosh, bouncing onto the big chest, as hard at it looks.

The feel of a significant arousal pushing against his thigh pings on his brain, causing tiny frissons of energy to flow across his skin.  The hairs raise in their path and he hisses, bearing his teeth.  “I know what you are, and I know what I am, and it makes no difference.  Take your fucking hands off me before I break them!”

But he knows its bravado, words as the moments pass and the Heat need gnaws at his mind and body like a beast.  Having Garrosh this close is torture;  the Heat doesn’t care that Garrosh is an Orc and he a human.  It knows need and survival, and Garrosh fulfils both demands.  He is still trying to form a challenge or threat or any kind of coherent insult when he feels the clothing being pulled from his body by large, surprisingly dextrous hands.  The removal of his pants releases a strong, musky scent from his arse and he notes in a corner of his brain that he is already presenting, despite all logic.  And Garrosh notes it too and wipes one hand across his buttocks and lifts it to smell the trace of slick lubricant on his fingers.

He makes a satisfied humming sound and slides both hands under Varian’s buttocks, lifting him up and Varian’s legs slide around Garrosh’s hips as if they had minds of their own.  Instead of trying to gouge out those wide, focused eyes his hands grip the Orc’s shoulders, digging his fingers into the big muscles.  He is lost, he realises, as his body recognises the mastering power of the Alpha to be exactly what he needs, match for match.  Just as he is the strongest Omega, Garrosh is the strongest Alpha.  Intellect and reason doesn’t stand a chance.

And then he is lowered onto that huge, jutting cock, the biggest he has ever had or known.  Its size is so great he wonders dimly if even he can take it, but his body adjusts if not easily, then adequately.  The pressure builds, his fingers tighten, but there is no pain, only hunger assuaged and wonderful satisfaction as the cock presses up into him, stretching his body to its full capacity.  He hears Garrosh groan and Varian drops his head to the chest, his body shuddering, fighting still in the only way he can.  Fighting to survive.  There is no logic in this mating but there is survival and he holds onto that as he grabs the big arms in a hard grasp, as he is lifted and pushed, up and down, riding it as it plunges further and further, until he has all of it in him, until he surrounds Garrosh with his hot, pulsing flesh.

He bites down on a raised nipple, earning another groan and the humping increases in pace and when the cock touches his inner wall he arches back and yells as he climaxes and shoots his come across Garrosh’s stomach.  Garrosh shudders and growls like a beast and thrusts in one last hard and deep possession as  Varian senses the flow of his seed,  its heat matching his own heat, giving his body what it needs to enclose the circle of Heat and hunger.

He blanks out for a few moments and revives to find himself still held, but sitting on Garrosh’s thighs where the Orc is sprawled on the floor, his back to the wall.  He thinks that he has never had such a coupling before, never one with such perfect satisfaction.  From the mild shaking of the big hand that strokes his back, he thinks perhaps Garrosh is of the same mind.  He can almost read the big body.  And then he realises he can, that the sense of Other is far deeper than it should be, could be.  Varian groans and pushes himself up.

“No.”

But Garrosh continues to hold him, dark eyes watchful.  “Mine.  You are…” His deep voice is strangely unsteady.  “None but I will take you.  Not ever.”  And Varian knows he mean ‘can’t’ because somehow they’d  formed some sort of improbable, impossible bonding.  He grabs his clothing and dresses, aware of Garrosh on a level beyond thought.  He doesn’t answer, doesn’t speak at all, just looks at the waiting Orc and then, very much against his will, reaches down to touch the big shoulder.  Then he turns and leaves.

And when he is back in Stormwind, looking at his reflected image once more, he notices that the tensions are gone, that the pressure that had always lain at the back of his mind had vanished.  He is both more and less than he was and somehow he must navigate an impossible path between duty and survival.  And when the Heat comes on him again he knows that it will drive him to find the Alpha who is finally his match in every way but the one way he can permit.


	2. Chapter 2

Sitting on a tree stump with his wolf resting in the grass beside him, Garrosh Hellscream runs a honing stone across the already sharp blade of Gorehowl as he watches the battle unfold.

Such conflicts as the one he is watching often occur at various places across Kalimdor, especially in areas where the Alliance has established bases of any kind.  It seems any Horde presence incites them to leave the protection of their walls and charge out, offering challenge.  He understands that desire, it happens for his own people as well.  The younger, more excitable members of both sides are prone to view the mere presence of the other as reason enough to fight.  It’s difficult to control that response.  Most times he wouldn’t even try. 

The Warchief would not normally attend such minor interactions but he’d been out hunting with his Kor’kron guard squad and heard the sound of battle, and had no more been able to resist investigating it than he could stop being an Orc.  Some of his guards requested the chance to join in and he’d sent one or two of them into the fight, simply because he could.

He puts the honing stone away and is about to call his people back when he senses a presence.  His heart thuds abruptly, a combination of excitement and dread.  He stands, leaning forward, eyes narrowed as he searches the scene of battle.  And after a few moments he sees him.

_Varian Wrynn._

It is almost three months since the meeting at Dalaran, and what had happened there.  To find that the High King of the Alliance, of all people, was an Omega, was incredible enough.  But to be there to trigger his Heat, to take and possess him, that had been a conquest on an intimately satisfying level.  But the result was unexpected.  The hatred he’d felt for that particular human had changed into something else.  It became a hunger that could only be satisfied by one thing.

More of him.

For the leader of the Alliance to take part in such a petty fight  would be stupid at best, but the timing is everything.  Three months, a normal Omega cycle.  Whether deliberately or not, Wrynn had come searching for him.  A smile turns one side of Garrosh’s mouth upwards as he shoves Gorehowl into the sheath on his back.  _Well, if he wants me, I shouldn’t disappoint him…_

He calls his remaining guards together, issuing instructions, and slides onto his wolf’s back.  The Kor’kron gather their weapons and form a wedge around him and they ride forward across the field, slicing through the Alliance forces.  He knows when the King sees him, feels the rush of fury, even as the Heat stirs awake like a beast, a hunger that triggers a mirroring flush in his blood and makes his skin tingle. 

“Remember,” he shouts, nostrils flaring, “no one touches the human King.  I’ll gut anyone who does.”

A path is cleared for him until he reaches the point where Varian stands, his great sword bloodied from hilt to tip.  A royal Stormwind standard flutters behind him and though he is very tired still that proud head lifts in response to Garrosh’s  approach, and the blue eyes glare at him as his hand tightens on the sword’s grip.  The Alliance forces around him are fighting fiercely, trying to protect their King but they’re outnumbered, exhausted and fall one by one beneath the determined Kor’kron advance.

As he stands, dragging Gorehowl slowly over his shoulder, he senses Varian’s Heat.  It sometimes surprises him how others cannot recognise an Omega’s Heat bloom, it always feels so powerful to him.  Sensual, magnetic, it is drawing him closer despite himself and he drops Gorehowl to the ground, hearing it thud as he steps forward.  He has no intention of killing the King and the swinging swipe of the big blade that Varian makes misses him by feet.  He ducks under the sword and smashes into the human, knocking him backwards, landing on top of him.  Varian is stunned by the impact and Garrosh takes the opportunity to slap the side of his head, knocking him unconscious.

The rest of his people are dead by the time his limp body is seated in front of Garrosh on his wolf.  He rides off towards the Crossroads, leaving the tattered and bloodied standard to mark the place for the buzzards and the hyenas already gathering.

By the time Garrosh arrives at his rooms in Grommash Hold Varian is beginning to recover consciousness though it’s a confused and barely intelligent awareness.  The exhaustion, the damage from a variety of wounds and the physical stress of a denied Heat release have taken their toll and even Varian Wrynn’s considerable strength is starting to wear thin.   Garrosh hands him over to the healers who tend his wounds and clean him up.  He sends them away finally, leaving a naked, bruised and barely conscious human lying sprawled on the Warchief’s bed.

Garrosh watches him as him strips off his own armour, leaving only his short leather pants.  To Orc eyes, Varian Wrynn isn’t physically attractive.  ‘Small teeth’ the Orcs called the first humans they met on their arrival on Azeroth.  Small in every way; shorter, less heavily muscled, with no natural weaponry compared to the teeth, tusks and bulk of an Orc.  Yet they’re  resilient creatures, refusing to admit defeat, returning again and again to challenge the Horde.  They’d earned the Horde’s grudging respect, and Varian more than any other.  The strongest human, certainly the most stubborn, he’d fought the Horde – and Orcs in particular – all his adult life.  That made him attractive in a way beyond the mere physical.

As Garrosh sits on the edge of the bed, Varian’s eyes open and his head turns to watch the Warchief.  His eyes gradually focus on the big Orc and his body begins to shake as the Heat flares.  Varian rolls onto his side and he stands, unsteady but obviously determined.

_Stubborn indeed._   Garrosh snorts in frustration.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Am I..a prisoner?”  His voice is hoarse and he coughs, wobbling a little on his feet.

Garrosh laughs, simply amused.  “My prisoner?  No. “  He waves one hand towards the door. “Feel free to leave, if you can.”

Varian grabs a cloak from a nearby chair, wraps it around himself and staggers towards the door.  Each second his movement becomes more unstable.  He pushes himself upright against the doorframe.  “You killed…them all…didn’t you.  All my people…”

“Not me personally.  My orcs did.  A number of Horde warriors died as well.”  But Varian obviously isn’t open to logic at that moment; he shakes his head and continues on, out through the door, heading for the stairs.  Garrosh follows him, he isn’t sure the human can navigate the steps but somehow he manages, tripping and sliding his way down and out of the Hold.  By the time he reaches the open courtyard before the Hold he is barely able to take a step, and locals stop to watch him, astonished at his sudden appearance, there in the middle of Orgrimmar.  But Garrosh’s guards stand ready as the Warchief snarls orders to them.  They stand back as Varian reaches the mouth of the tunnel leading through the front wall.  He takes a step, stumbles and falls – but Garrosh is there to catch him before he hits the ground.

“Enough!  You’ve done enough.”  The human’s Heat need pulses from him, filled with the pain of denial.  “Gods, you’re insane.  Is death better than my touch?”

“Stupid…question, monster.”  Hands pummel him, the flushed face twisted into a grimace of anger and pain.  Garrosh ignores it as he walks back towards the Hold, easily carrying the weakly struggling human back up to his room.  He dumps Varian onto the bed, pushes off his own pants and slides down next to the twitching figure. 

He makes a low guttural snarl of satisfaction and he runs his mouth down Varian’s body, tusks leaving thin slices of blood that mingle with Varian’s sweat.  Each mark he leaves crosses other older scars on the man’s body but it as if he is owning each small piece of skin as he moves down and across, his tongue spreading the thin layer of blood, tasting the heat and hunger, both his own and Varian’s.  His hands move at the same time, slowly stroking, feeling muscles tense and flex under his touch.  He could move faster, take Varian right there and then but the desire to utterly dominate is overwhelming.  He wants not just to possess but for his ownership to be acknowledged.  He bends closer, covering Varian’s body with his own, moving up to his throat and nudging the proud head back, setting his tusks and teeth at the vulnerable soft skin above the big blood vessel there.  

“Give in to me,” he whispers, tongue lapping, feeling the rapid beat of the man’s blood.  “Tell me what you need.”  He slowly strokes his face across Varian’s throat, licking and tasting the salty sweat.  “Tell me…”

Hands grasp his face, one settling on each tusk, pulling back – but not to pull away but to hold onto and he looks into eyes intently watching him, despite Varian being deep into Heat.  “You.  I need you, gods help me.”

Garrosh grins, eyes narrowed.  “No need of gods when I’m here.”  And he chuckles at the affronted look on the man’s face as he bends to run his tongue down across Varian’s arousal, nudges lower to the hot, damp opening and flips Varian onto his stomach as he licks his arse.  Beyond thought at last, Varian rises to hands and knees, head dropping as Garrosh moves above and behind, as he touches and strokes and then possesses, entering him with one deep, avid  growl.

He wraps his arms under Varian’s body, covering him as he mounts him in regular, grunting thrusts.  Varian moans and shivers, the heat of his body spilling into Garrosh, linking them in the cycle of need and lust.  Their mutual release is a kind of annihilation; it destroys what they are – orc and human, enemy to the other – and makes them one thing that is something new.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of my self-indulgent Varrosh fic, that will not die (:

An hour later and they are both lying on Garrosh’s large sleeping pad in an exhausted sprawl.  While the Heat has not entirely passed, it is no longer overwhelming, and Varian yawns wearily as he turns onto his side.

“Bath.  I need a bath.  Possibly two baths.” 

“We both do,” Garrosh mutters, sitting up.  “And if you ever hold off like that again, I’ll kill you.”

Varian considers  flinging some sort of insults but decides it’s not worth the effort and just grunts.  Even disgustingly messy as he is, his eyes start to droop closed, until a large hand slides under his back and lifts him up.  “Braggart,” he mutters, wondering where the Orc finds the strength, and then not thinking about much at all as he is taken to the bath they both so badly needed.

“You have to let me go,” he says at one point, as he soaks in the bath, relishing the heat as it works on the strains and aches.  “I need to go home, I have duties.”

Garrosh snorts as he lies against the tub wall.  “Let you go.  Nonsense.  You’re the leader of the Alliance.  Releasing you would be foolish.”

Varian slides through the water and up against Garrosh, and runs one hand up over his chest to his neck and around his face, stroking it across the broad features.  “Are you sure,” he whispers, fingers touching lightly on the prominent tusks.  “Letting me return to Stormwind,” he murmurs, staring up into the amber eyes, “would probably be a good idea…”

Garrosh’s eyelids droop.  “Yes, letting you…”  And then they snap open and he reaches up to take the hand from his face.  “Do you seduce the other Alliance leaders like that, to get your way?”  He pulls the man against his body.  “You’re good at it.”

“None of them are Alphas,” Varian says in a slow, warm drawl, as he rubs his face against Garrosh’s neck, “so no, I don’t.” The Warchief’s eyes droop closed again, mesmerized by the Omega aura.  He idly considers that Varian could do almost anything to him at such a moment and he’d be too enthralled to respond.  Even with the Heat partly dampened, the Omega field is still very evident.  Physically he could overpower any Omega.  But an Omega like Varian has other strengths against which he has few defences.  His body is practically humming with pleasure simply by having Varian so close, touching him; every stress and worry and concern drift magically away.  He is like a drug, Garrosh’s drug, and he is satiated with it.

“If you are thinking of persuading me to release you,” he says slowly, “doing what you are doing is a bad idea.”  His hands slide beneath Varian’s arse and lift him closer.  “Just makes me want to keep you against my skin all the time.”

“I’m probably not thinking all that well at the moment.”  The smaller human mouth licks at his throat, leaving a tingling trail of pleasure.  “This just feels good.”

“Hmm.  We’ll discuss it…tomorrow.”

Varian doesn’t argue as Garrosh stands up in the tub, still carrying him, and steps out.  He is dried and taken back up to Garrosh’s room and they lie together in a comfortable sprawl of arms and legs and feel asleep finally to a night without dreams.

* * *

 

Garrosh wakes to the sound of snoring and he turns his head towards the sound.

Varian is sleeping on his back, a fur lying across his hips, one arm stretched out, the other laying across Garrosh’s legs.  The Warchief watches the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest , then reaches out to snag a strand of knotted hair where it lies across the man’s face.  _If someone had told me months ago that I’d wake up beside the sleeping High King of the Alliance, I’d have thought them mad._   Yet there he was, comfortably asleep next to an orc.  The world was indeed a very strange place.

As if sensing he was being observed, Varian mutters and turns onto his side, pressing closer to Garrosh’s body.  It feels indecently good having Varian that close and the more time they are in such proximity, the more he wants to be near him, to luxuriate in the powerful Omega aura. 

Varian wakes abruptly, stirred by a warrior’s instincts into instant waking.  He yawns and stretches,  eyes finally focusing on the big orc lying next to him.  “Not some bizarre dream then,” he mutters. 

Garrosh grunts.  “I’ve noticed humans talk too much.  We prefer actions, not words.  You should try it.”

“Conversational advice from an Orc.”  Varian’s eyelids droop and his mouth quirks up in a lazy half-smile.  “What next, Orcish grunt poetry?”

“Mock me at your peril.”  The words would have had more bite if the Warchief wasn’t twitching as Varian’s hand slides languidly down his stomach towards his groin.  The two sets of eyes, blue and amber, lock as Varian’s fingers slide through wiry hair and under one large testicle. 

It takes nothing more than that to trigger Garrosh’s arousal.  The King’s fingers squeeze the big ballsack and Garrosh sucks in a breath; Varian has hard hands and it isn’t a gentle touch.  But it stops  just on the edge of pain and then starts again; squeeze, harden, release and begin again.  By the time he’s done it half a dozen times moisture is starting drip down from the Orc mouth and nose onto his chin.  He grinds his jaws together to stop from making some sort of humiliating whine, and stares fixedly at Varian’s blue eyes.  When it becomes  too much he leans forward and runs his tongue up Varian’s throat, letting his tusks stroke across the big vein.

And then that faint, remaining Heat aura rises and his mind just turns off.  The combination of normal arousal and the Omega taint makes rational thought impossible.  He just wants…wants Varian, wants to be in him, to possess and touch him.  Domineering lust swirls through his veins.  He feels hands on his body, grasping, digging into him; a flash of small, white teeth and then he’s on top of that strong human body, feeling legs wrap around him, hands pulling him closer and his cock slides into the familiar space that welcomes him, caressing his senses and he knows he’s lost.  He can never let this man go, even if it bring his Horde and the Alliance into an even more vicious conflict. 

It seems that words might be needed, after all, to sort out this impossible dilemma.  To keep what he cannot keep, to release what he cannot let go.  As his orgasm explodes in a wash of noise and shuddering pleasure, as he senses Varian’s moan at the glorious tightness of his touch, he puts it all aside for another day.  Right then it’s all he can do just to survive.

 


	4. Chapter 4

He finds Varian on the city wall above the main gate.  His guards are present, watchful but keeping a polite distance as instructed.  He is leaning on the battlement gazing eastward into the morning sun.

_East.  To where Stormwind waits impatiently for its Master’s return._

Garrosh isn’t that adept at reading human body language but their bond has made him far more sensitive to this human’s state of mind.  He can see Varian’s face in profile, the pale human skin stretched taut over fine bones, the expression even, yet there is a hint of something.  Wanting perhaps, or sadness.  It’s not a feeling he thought a warrior would have, being sad.  But it’s there, in the slight droop of shoulders, the angle of the head. 

He crosses and stands next to Varian and waits.  Waiting next to him is easy, pleasant, there is no tension or impatience as there would be for Garrosh when he is made to wait on another.  Although the Heat has passed and there is no longer a need for intimacy, still it feels good just to be next to him.  Ridiculously good.  And he guesses that comfortable feeling will only grow in time as they settle into each other’s lives, like a hand wearing into a new glove. 

Finally he decides to speak.  “I’ve heard from the Alliance about you.”

Varian nods slowly.  “I imagine so.  If Genn had anything to do with the wording of it, I expect it was volatile.”

“That old wolf needs a muzzle.  But yes, the first was more of a request.  The second was a demand, with added threats.”  Garrosh grinned.  “If he thinks to move me with threats, he doesn’t know me.”

Varian looks up at him, blue eyes intent and he grunts.  “The answer is still no.”  Frustration finally starts unwinding in his belly.  “No good to look at me that way.  I’ve made my decision.  You stay.  That’s final.  If the Alliance tries me, they’ll crawl away bloodied.”  He turns and begins to walk away, and hears a sudden shout from the guards.

When the whips around he sees Varian has leapt up on top of the battlement, facing Garrosh, with the heels of his boots over the edge of the stone.  “What the fuck are you playing at?”

“No games.”  He raised one arm as a guard steps closer.  “Hold back your dogs or I step back.”

Garrosh cannot take the chance.  He snarls, and the guards move away.  “Get down, you idiot!” 

Varrian shakes his head slowly, chin lowered to his chest.  “You are leaving me with no choice.  I cannot stay here, I cannot risk the Alliance coming for me, dying for me over something so personal.  And if I go back, if I resist the Heat again, I will die in agony and humiliation.”  He takes in a deep, shuddering breath.  “I’m not afraid of death, but I’d rather go by my own hand that die that way.”

For the first time in a long age, Garrosh feels fear.  It claws at his guts, ice-cold and hot at the same time.  His heart thuds, his vision swims as he tries to find a way to get Varian back from the brink.  “Give me time.  Give me time to think of something.  I give you my oath that if I cannot find a way to keep you safe and keep the Alliance from an assault, I will release you.  But give me – give us – time to think on it.”  He swallows audibly, finding the breath to say something he never thought he would.  “Please.”

Varian considers it, insanely calm on the edge of falling.  “Your oath on it?”

“As I said.  My oath as Warchief, on the blood of my ancestors.  Come down from there before I have a heart attack.”  He holds out one hand and finally Varian moves – forward, ignoring the hand, and jumping down to land in front of the Warchief.

Garrosh reaches out and grabs him, pulls him forward into a bruising hold.  He doesn’t speak as he fights down the shuddering tension.  “You’ll be the death of me,” he finally says, once his knows his voice is steady.

“Probably.”  Varian presses his face into Garrosh’s chest and they stand together in silence for a time.  When they are both calmer, Varian leaves to return to the Warchief’s quarters, and Garrosh stays, arms resting on the battlement.

Someone behind him makes a throat-clearing noise and he grunts in annoyance.  “Go away.”

“Apologies, Warchief.”  It’s Eitrigg, and the old Orc doesn’t sound worried.  “But you asked me to let you know if any further messages came from the Alliance.”

Garrosh sighs and turns to face his advisor.  “More threats?”

“Yes, with a timing now.  They say if they don’t have their leader back in two days, they’ll launch an assault on Orgrimmar and take him back.”

“Idiots.  I’d annihilate them before they got in sight of the city walls.”  He sees Eitrigg’s calm demeanour.  “You don’t seem puzzled by my keeping Varian.  You don’t think I’m strange, wanting a human?”

“Not at all.  One of my dearest friends is human.  At least, I consider Tirion a friend.”  Eitrigg moves next to Garrosh and sits on a bench.  “Excuse my old bones, Warchief.  Those stairs are high and these legs aren’t what they once were.  Yes, I hold Tirion Fordring in high regard.  Not in any, ah, sexual way, of course.  But who am I to judge on an orc’s needs?”

“It isn’t just lust, old one.  We’re mated.”

That makes Eitrigg blink.  “Truly?  That is extraordinary.”

“I agree.  But it’s a bond I can’t deny. “

“Ah, I see.  One of those kind.  Well then I understand the problem for both of you.  You must find a solution that allows him to live and to do so with pride.  Not a simple thing.”  Eitrigg stands and, daringly, pats Garrosh’s arm.  “You must look beyond the ways things are now and remake the world to allow the both of you to live in it together.  Not many could do it, but you two are perhaps the only ones who can.”  He salutes his Warchief and hobbles off to the stairs.  “Oh, it’s a high climb up here, but sometimes a person must put up with the pain to reach the top….”

 


	5. Chapter 5

One thing guaranteed to draw a crowd is Varian with a weapon in his hand, doing just about anything with it.  He might be stripped down to leathers and smacking into a target dummy, he might be sparring in an exercise ring with a wooden sword against various partners.  And best of all, he might be matched up against Garrosh, both of them armoured and both using edged weapons.  That is certain to bring almost every unoccupied citizen of the city down to the exercise yard to ogle.  Orcs, in particular, practically hang off the fences watching him move, their eyes narrowed as if they are storing away his style, or just the memory of watching Varian Wrynn doing what he does best.

And it is a time for both of them to forget the ever-present worry of what to do about Varian’s future.  Interestingly, when he is fit and fully within his warrior mode, Varian has the edge on Garrosh.  He is tough, faster than the Warchief and his skill with Shalamayne is unmatched.  Time and again he touches the Warchief in ways that send him into a red-eyed fighting frenzy.  With any other opponent he would go for the death strike, but that doesn’t stop him from using his greater height and strength to smash Varian aside whenever he has the chance.

At one point in the fight Varian gets a little too close and finds himself in a fierce grip.  Massive arms wrap around him, holding him against the Warchief’s chest and he looks up into satisfied golden eyes.  This would normally be the end of the fight – he does not have anywhere near the strength needed to break that hold. So he doesn’t try.  He relaxes and strokes his face across the sweat-dampened chest, projecting his aura in a way that Garrosh had never experienced from another Omega.  The Warchief freezes, fascinated into a helpless fixation by the swirl of that warm, delicious sensation.  His grip eases as the fighting fury melts from his mind, and in a moment Varian surges downwards, sliding free and rolling away.

He dances back, grinning as an angry flush colours Garrosh’s face.  The Warchief snarls, flexing his hands into fists.  “Cheating!”

“Using the weapons at hand.”  He grins, wiping a smear of blood from a cut lip.  “And yes, cheating, probably.”

So the next time Varian is in range, and perhaps driven by frustrations and the violence of the fight, Garrosh delivers a fisted blow that sends the King flying backwards into the fence.  He falls, dropping his sword and hitting the ground, obviously injured and barely conscious.  The Warchief howls in fury, tosses his axe down and skids along the hard-packed earth to kneel next to Varian.

“Idiot, why didn’t you dodge?”  And he wonders at that moment, even as he bends to pick the man up, if it wasn’t deliberate.  Is he starting to seek out death without actually doing it to himself?  If so, there will be no more bouts, Garrosh realises.  Too easy to stand and take a fatal blow that isn’t meant to be.

He carries the unconscious man back to his rooms, shouting for healers along the way.  Varian is propped up on the bed while a druid and priest set to work on him.  They find nothing serious but a nasty bump to the head, and they heal whatever hurts they find.  But Varian doesn’t wake and Garrosh fumes, walking back and forth for a time and then finally settling onto the side of the bed, watching the King.  In time he wakes, groggy but whole and Garrosh ignores an impulse to hold him.  He isn’t a child, he is a man grown and neither of them are accustomed to softness.

He wants to, though, and that’s disturbing.

Blue eyes finally focus on him and Garrosh speaks, levelly, slowly.  “You should wear a helm.”

It might be the last thing Varian expects to hear and his lips quirk up, despite his obvious pain.  “I never…wear a helm.  You either.”

“Hate the things.  Can’t see properly.”  He stands again and paces again.  “A large Alliance force has landed on the coast.  Seems like Greymane finally came out of his den.”

That brings Varian straight upright, despite the wince, and the hand to his head.  “How far?”

“A day’s travel.  They brought air support, but that will probably arrive at the same time.  Might be the first, not the only one.  I’d come from multiple points if I were doing it.”

Varian grunts in agreement.  He doesn’t speak, just waits, and watches as Garrosh goes to the window, his back to the room.  “I’m drawing in reinforcements from across Kalimdor.  Wherever he comes from, he won’t make it here, not untouched.  The Horde is always ready for war.  When we defend our home, we’re even stronger because our families are here.  Attacking Orgrimmar is…suicide.”  At the last word he turns and faces Varian, expression grim.  “And you’re right.  I must think like a Warchief.  I relish fighting the Alliance, it would be glorious.  But –“

“Stupid.  Thousands would die for no strategic reason.  And despite what you say, Orgrimmar would suffer.  Can you justify the damage, the loss of families?  You have to let me go.”

As much as he wants to deny that statement again, Garrosh knows he can’t.  His body shudders in fury at the idea of backing down, against Varian, against Genn, against the Alliance.  And against logic, that hated, vile logic.  At any other time he’d hunger for the fight but he knows that Varian will find a way to die rather than let his people waste themselves against his walls.  Another human trait, that stubborn defiance that puts life even higher than a warrior’s honour.

“Yes.  I will let you go.”  Unable to resist, he strokes the tangled dark hair.  He can’t think of what else to say that wouldn’t be pathetically weak so he says nothing.  He was right that Orcs talk less than humans, so all he can do is put what he feels into touch, and use that as an excuse to hold, for a little time, what he must let go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little interlude, wherein Varian has a somewhat uncomfortable chat with Mathias Shaw.

Varian is working his way through his paperwork when Mathias Shaw suddenly appears in front of him.

The King knows he didn’t actually **appear** – he isn’t a mage – but his chief spy has a way of moving that tended to make people just not notice him.  Varian is used to it after years of interaction with the man, but it still makes him jump. 

“Lords of Light, I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

Mathias gives his King a mild smile.  “Apologies, Majesty.  But you did say you wished to see me as soon as possible.  I entered quietly in case of a problem.”

“No problem.  Well,” Varian says, stretching back in his chair, “it isn’t anything dangerously urgent, I just wanted to speak to you and I know you have a habit of leaving to do things at a moment’s notice.  Or without any notice at all, in fact.”  He indicates to Mathias to sit, and the spy slides quietly into the chair before the desk.  “I need to know certain things of a…private…nature.”

One eyebrow quirks upwards.  “Indeed?  About me, you or someone else?”

“The last two.”  Varian’s fingers begin tapping on the desk and he stops them.  “What can you tell me about Garrosh Hellscream?”

“A very great deal, much of which you would already know.  Specifics?”

“His personal life.  That is,” Varian says, groping for the right words, “his physical nature.”

“Oh.”  Mathias nods in understanding.  “You mean, do I know he is an Alpha.  Yes, I knew that.”

“And do you know about me?”

Mathias’ eyes narrow and his lips quirk, the only sign of his uncertainty.  “I have suspected.”

“Out with it, you can’t hurt me with the truth.”

Mathias tisked.  “Of course you can, sir.  The truth can be the ultimate assault.  However, I have long suspected that you are an Omega.  Your lack of interest in sexual partners, specifically female ones, yet you do not show the body language of one who is normally fae.  That you absent yourself from the city for a day or two every three months.  My people have tried to track you but you have been very careful.”

“Have they indeed?  Just how many agents DO you have in the Keep, Mathias?”

“At this moment, not including myself, five.  It differs from time to time, depending on the level of threat.”

“Hmm.”  Varian sucks in a deep breath, fighting the discomfit.  “Then you may be the only person who understands that my imprisonment by the Warchief was not exactly that.”

He looks up to see genuine surprise light Mathias’ face.  “What!”

“Yes, that.  I will give you details, because I need to tell someone who is engaged in securing my welfare.  And if I cannot trust you – well, I do.  It started during my visit six months ago to Dalaran…”  He tells an increasingly amazed Mathias the story of his relationship with Garrosh.  When he's finished he waits while Mathias processes the facts.

“I see,” he finally says, features resuming their normal unreadable calm.  “We thought perhaps that Hellscream was hurting you, torturing you, the sort of things a creature such as he would do to…”

“Mathias.” 

The agent freezes at the tone and his head turns to one side.  “Sire?”

“Garrosh Hellscream and I are mated.  Temper your insults.”

“But…he is the Warchief of the Horde!  He is an Orc!  How can you consider him your mate?  That’s ..I have no words for what it is!”

“There are no words for what we have.  I understand his faults, no one better.  He is an Orc.  He can be cruel, violent, vicious, cunning, unpredictably tempered.  And a great many humans can be exactly the same.  He is also, in his own way, honourable, courageous, strong, a leader of his people.” His eyes focus beyond the room, to somewhere far off.  “He’s oddly vulnerable, even insecure.  He is not certain that he is a true son of his father.  I think perhaps he does much of what he does to prove to himself that he is worthy to be seen as Grom’s son.”  His eyes focus back on Mathias.  “I bear my own flaws, my own dark past moments when I’ve said and done things of which I’m not proud.  But when I am with him, we are a more complete whole than when we are apart.  So yes, I stayed with him, not just because I have a bond that allows me to be with no other – that in fact insists I release my Heat with him.  I stayed with him because I wanted to.”

It is clear to Varian that Mathias still doesn’t understand, and it’s not surprising.  Six months ago he thought the same way.  But if Mathias Shaw has a strength, it’s his depth of loyalty.  “I cannot say I completely understand or approve, Majesty, but my mores are not yours, and my service is to you, regardless of your particular nature.  Does this mean, then, that you will be returning to him when your cycle peeks again?”

“Yes.  Out of necessity, but also because I wish to.  You must protect the Kingdom when I am away, look after my son and ensure that if the worst should befall me, you will guide him as King as you have me.  And for Light’s sake, don’t tell Genn.”  He grins at Mathias’ wide-eyed rapid nod.  “Yes, he really wouldn’t understand, he’d think me unnatural.  Which,” he says with a brief snort of laughter, “would be amusing, coming from someone who regularly turns into a wolf….”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Three months pass surprisingly quickly.  There was a great deal to be done: Deathwing’s activities had increased and he was causing destruction across the world.  The Alliance leaders were surprised when the Horde Warchief proved agreeable to a reduction of Horde-Alliance interaction.  Varian didn’t bother to tell them that it was due to his communications with Garrosh.  His partner hadn’t been too happy about it.  In fact, he’d initially refused.  But when Varian ceased all communications and ignored three increasingly heated messages, he’d finally relented.  Though Varian suspects he will pay for it in some way when they meet up.

As the weeks wind down to days and the Heat cycle stirs in him, Varian sends messages to Garrosh via his small group of Goblin messengers.  He doesn’t wish to go to Orgrimmar again, not just yet – events might require him to be home and he prefers they meet somewhere neutral.  After discussion, they agree on the Hinterlands – it’s a pleasant area with some nice beaches and woodlands, with both Horde and Alliance bases nearby if they are needed.  Varian provides Garrosh with details of his route in case of trouble, and they agree on a meeting place and time.  Anticipation grows in him as the day dawns; Heat tickles at the back of his throat as he packs his supplies on the back of his own personal gryphon, Whitewing.  The big bird nuzzles him happily; they haven’t flown together often of late and he is ready to stretch his wings.

Varian had grown a short beard over the proceeding days – not something he would normally do but it was something extra in the way of disguise if they are seen.  He is also wearing lighter armour than his normal set, with no Alliance markings, and he wears an ordinary two-hander on his back in place of Shalamayne.  He knows he can easily pass for a tall, well-built warrior-adventurer.  Messages have been left with Anduin and Shaw, one who believes a story of a meeting to take place elsewhere and the other who doesn’t need details because he is fully aware of the date.

And then he is up on his bird’s back and he launches upwards and away from Stormwind, heading north.

It’s a long flight, and he knows he will have to break it half way to give Whitewing a break.  They fly low over Ironforge and then veer north-east towards Thandol Span.  Varian thinks that Arathi Highlands will a good place to rest and he guides Whitewing down to land near the river, so the bird can drink and both of them can rest.

He is lying in the shade of a tree when a group of fighters dart out from cover and attack.  There are a dozen of them and Varian curses himself for not remembering the Syndicate is active in this area.  Whitewing launches into an attack, screeching and lashing out, and one of the men, a big brutish man in well-kept plate, points at the bird.  “Kill that fucking thing!”

Even though Varian is fighting for his life, he snarls in anger as arrows and spears are launched at his gryphon.  The bird arches back, shrieking in pain, and collapses, its wings thrashing as blood stains its white feathers.  He knows he’s in real trouble; these men are good fighters and he’s just lost his one way of a quick escape.  And then, unexpectedly, the leader calls them back.

And Varian realises why when the big man stops just outside his sword range.  Because he’s smiling, and Varian senses the unmistakeable aura of an Alpha.  The man pulls off his helm and tosses it aside, wiping sweat-dampened hair from his face.  “Well, well.  What have we here.  Boys, this one’s mine.  Though I might let you have a taste when I’m finished with him.  Ever fucked an Omega?  It’s your lucky day…”

 


	8. Chapter 8

Garrosh Hellscream isn’t noted for his patience.  He is expecting Varian, he knows his Heat is due any time and he’d been waiting at the appointed rendevouz for an hour.  A dark voice wonders if it’s deliberate, if the human is forcing him to wait, punishing him for something.  But he snarls that dark thought away.  Varian wants him as much as he wants Varian.  It’s a Heat need, and you don’t play around with that sort of thing.

Finally, he has had enough.  He knows which way the King will be coming, so he mounts his Windrider and heads south.

The further he flies, the more tense he becomes.  There’s no obvious reason for it, yet he knows something is wrong.  Anxiety claws at his guts as he sends the windrider lower, skirting Alliance bases and towns and skimming across the grass as he crosses into Arathi Highlands.  And as he comes to a set of wooded hills near the river he pulls his mount aside and glides down behind a copse of stunted trees.

Because he’d seen the group of humans, and Varian’s Heat bloom came from the centre of them like a shriek of pain.

Garrosh clenches his fists until the knuckles crack.  His instinct is to run forward but he holds still, calms his breathing and pushes slowly through the undergrowth, crouching  down behind a tree.  It takes only a glance for the rage to stir in his blood until he’s shaking.

It’s a pack of human males in motley and mostly shabby gear; bandits, he thinks and he can smell their rank odour from where he crouches.  From the condition of some of them, Varian managed to do some serious damage before he was taken.  He sees at least two bodies lying in a heap to one side, and three of the men are slumped aside nursing wounds.  But four of them appear relatively untouched and one draws his narrowed glare.  Because he can sense, even at that distance, that the man’s an Alpha.

Fury builds in his gut as he realises what has been happening.  He can see Varian kneeling on the ground, arms confined behind him.  He’s naked from the waist down with only a cloth undershirt above that, and its torn and stained with blood.  Two of the men appear to be preparing themselves for rape, stroking revealed cocks and laughing.  The Alpha bends down, grabs a handful of Varian’s hair and pulls him forward.  Garrosh strains to hear…something about mouth…and Varian’s response earns him punch to the stomach.  Even without being able to see the King’s face, the spike of pain comes to him like a sharp cut to his nerves.

It’s enough to shatter his control.  With an enraged roar Garrosh throws himself out of the bushes and bounds forward, pulling Gorehowl from his back sheath and slashing it in a wide sweep.  Two of the shocked warriors drop before they have time to react, cut almost in half by the swiping blade.  The big axe blade sticks into a third and Garrosh releases the shaft, picks up the man and literally rips his head from his neck.  Blood fountains out as he hurls the body aside and swings around to face the Alpha. 

That one has had time to react – he has a two handed sword ready and is shouting to his wounded comrades for help.  Garrosh ignores them; wounded prey are no threat to him.  He crouches low, arms out wide, fingers spread, eyes narrowed and centred on the Alpha.  He ignores whatever the man is saying, completely locked into combat mode and ready to kill.

And when the man pulls the sword back and leaps to strike, Garrosh swings to the side, grabs his arm and twists it, pulling the shoulder joint apart in one tremendous wrench.  The man screams, drops the sword and staggers back.  As he does Garrosh  draws back and kicks him with all the power of his big thighs, directly between the legs.  Everything  there is turned to bloody pulp.  As the Alpha howls in agony, Garrosh reaches forward and crushes his throat, letting him drop to choke on his own blood.

The remaining wounded brigands are trying to crawl away but he despatches them all, one after another, quickly and efficiently. When he turns back to Varian, he finds the King propped up against a tree trunk, watching him.  Garrosh is covered in blood and gore, but none of it his own.  Not one of them had even touched him.

The fury bleeds from him as he crouches down in front of Varian.  Weary blue eyes look into his and the cut and bruised face crinkles into a grimace.   His voice is a tired croak.  “What took you so long?”

He doesn’t care then that he’s filthy with the splattered blood and guts of his enemies – he carefully gathers Varian to him and stands, holding him close.  “Next time you come to Orgrimmar.  No more meetings in the middle of nowhere.  Did he……?

Varian rests his head on Garrosh’s chest.  “He did.  But you made him pay for it.  Very adequately.”

He wishes they were all alive so he could kill them again.  Collecting Gorehowl from one of the corpses, he cuts Varian’s hands free and carries him back to his waiting mount.  They can’t fly far, so he heads north for Hammerfell.  It’s too far to travel further that day and he boots everyone out of the shabby one-room Inn, orders hot water for a bath and settles Varian onto the larger, cleaner bed.  He isn’t experienced at reading humans but the shadowed colour of the King’s face, the unfocused glazed look, speaks of shock.  Warriors sometimes experience it, after a dark, fearful fight.  _Or other things, just as bad. Like being in Heat and forced to have sex with a disgusting Alpha who isn’t the one you’re bound to._

They don’t speak, there doesn’t seem to be anything either of them can say right then .  When the bath is drawn, Varian walks to it unaided and climbs in, tossing the torn shirt away.  Garrosh studies him silently – he’s been wounded but nothing serious, mostly cuts and knocks.  He soaps and scrubs himself repeatedly.  Garrosh understands that, at least, that desire to clean off touches that go deeper than the skin.  Eventually Varian climbs out and Garrosh gets in to wash the blood and muck away.  He calls for the Innkeeper and orders him to find some clothing for Varian, and the locals scrounge up a shirt and pants that fit, with a bit of cord around the waist to keep the oversized pants up.

Neither of them can face the idea of food.  Even the Heat seems to have retreated for a time, though Garrosh knows that they will have to attend to it at some stage.  Right then, Varian needs rest more than anything.  After that, they will see how things are.

Garrosh stares up into the shadowed rafters and curses softly, for himself as much as Varian.  When did the urge to control and possess become something more?  He isn’t sure what it is, only that he’s never known it before.  Once he’d considered things like affection to be a sign of weakness.  They still were, because they made you vulnerable, because things you held to have value could be used to harm you.  _But this is a strength, not a weakness._ And what might destroy lesser beings would not destroy them.

He would not let it.


	9. Chapter 9

Varian comes out of his light doze to the sense of something touching his lips.  He blinks and focuses on golden eyes watching him from inches in front of his face.  “What..did you just do?”

“My mouth on yours.  Called a kiss.  Humans don’t do it?”

He chokes on a laugh. “Yes.  Just didn’t think Orcs did.  What about all those tusks and teeth?”

Garrosh pulls his head back as he settles closer to Varian on the bed, looking mildly affronted.   “We manage to do a lot of things humans think we can’t.”

“I…meant no offense.  It’s just I have this image of two Orcs trying to kiss, with clashing tusks and lots of ouches.” Varian watches Garrosh’s hand stroke lightly up his chest, fingers touching very lightly on the new scars.  He reaches up and slides his hand around the back of the Orc’s head.  “Come closer, let’s try that again.”

Garrosh seems happy to oblige.  He dips his head, angling his mouth so that the two big tusks lay along Varian’s cheek.  And he experiences again the unique feel of an Orc’s mouth on his.  It’s a strong kiss this time, the hot mouth working his lips apart so that their tongues can touch and curl.  He tastes of nothing like a human; not unpleasant but different.  Varian closes his eyes to appreciate the experience as a hand slides behind his head to hold him in place.  But it’s a cautious hold and he thinks, in the part of his mind not tied in that kiss, that Garrosh is being particularly careful.  So, to show him that that he’s not made of glass, he pulls the big body closer and strengthens the kiss, going deep into Garrosh’s mouth, sucking his tongue, tasting the depths of his mouth, swivelling his lips to run his tongue over one tusk and then drive it into Garrosh’s mouth even deeper.

And he feels his Heat caress Garrosh, flowing outwards into the Orc’s body, making him groan and shudder.  Garrosh pulls back, eyes flaring, teeth bared.  “I wanted…wasn’t sure after they…”

“It’s alright.  It’s not like it was the first time for me.”

That makes the Warchief pause, eyes widening.  “What?”

“You might have heard that when I was younger, I lost my memory and was captured by Orcs and turned into a pit fighter by Rehgar Earthfury.  I didn’t know anything about myself – not my name, my history and certainly not that I was an Omega.  I didn’t even know what it was.”  He settles back, absently stroking the arm wrapped around him.  “So naturally my first Heat during that time was a shock, I didn’t know what was happening to me.  Another one of the fighters, a human Alpha, took advantage of that ignorance and forced me.  Rehgar found out about it and took pity on me, explained what it meant.  Next time,” Varian finishes casually, “when I came in Heat again and he tried it again, I broke both his arms.  After that I chose my own partners.  So no, that mongrel wasn’t the first, but he was certainly the most disgusting. “  His gaze grows unfocused.  “I’ve never told that to anyone else.  My son doesn’t know, none of my close friends do.  I locked it away and swore not to let it happen again.”  He gives Garrosh a pained smile.  “So much for that.”

Garrosh scratches his chest absently, and he makes a sound something like a sigh.  He strokes one finger over Varian's bearded chin.  "Is this face hair staying?"

"Absolutely not." Varian scratches his cheek.  "It was meant as a part of my disguise.  I'll lose it tomorrow."

"Hmm, good.  It looks strange on you."  Then he dips his head.  “Another of those kisses.  Just to show how good I am at it.”

It’s a bit of a rough switch of topic, but Varian appreciates the thought.  So he reaches for the orc, despite the strangeness of it, because it does feel very good to be held and touched by someone who feels what he feels, who cares that his pleasure is a mirror of the giver.  He runs his lips over Garrosh’s, licking and sucking the big lower lip, slipping his tongue through the suddenly open mouth, and then the big tongue slides out across his face, to taste his eyes, to nudge his chin up and lick, again and again, at the warm, damp skin of his throat.

His Heat swells in that sense of enclosed comfort and Garrosh’s arms tighten on him as his face moves downwards, licking and smelling his skin, finding no trace of that other Alpha’s touch, just the familiar tang of Varian’s humanity.  He runs his rough tongue across Varian’s genitals, causing them to surge erect and Varian’s legs part and lift as Garrosh mouth travels further to taste and lick the opening of his body.  He takes _so_ long at it, an eternity of moist mouth swirling over the pulsing sphincter, tongue running over the skin surrounding it, stirring the hidden glands to release their musky lubricant.  Their release makes Varian moan, hands clutching at the bedding as his back arches.  He’s helplessly in Need now and hungry for the touch of the mate his body had chosen. 

Forgetting everything else, he groans in bliss as he is raised, his buttocks sliding up Garrosh’s thighs and the angle of his body should be awkward but it’s not, it’s perfect as that unmatched cock slides into him, touching him everywhere that he needs to be touched.   Garrosh covers him and they move together, their bodies so perfectly in synch that they achieve completion at almost the same moment.

As he lies, temporarily sated, Varian realises that this is why he was born an Omega.  It isn’t a weakness.  He is strong.  Garrosh is strong.  Together, they might just be unbreakable.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

There was a particular conversation that Varian hadn’t been looking forward to having.  He’d put it off for as long as possible, but with the ever-present chance of him dying – whether through natural causes or the implications of his Omega state – he decided he could no longer risk it.

On his return to Stormwind after finalising his Heat with Garrosh, he calls in to see his son.

Anduin is studying with his priest tutor, going over some of the more high level abilities he’d recently learned.  He was becoming an extremely able Priest, both as a healer and in the more combative skills and Varian enjoys watching him work.  Anduin’s concentration is beautifully balanced and he moves with a grace that Varian envies.  He catches sight of his father and pauses, grinning.

“Father!  I didn’t know you were home.”

“Just arrived.  Do you have some time to talk, I need to fill you in on a few things.”

“Of course.”  He thanks his tutor, picks up his jacket and cloak and tucks his wand away, following Varian out of the Cathedral to where their mounts are tied.  They ride back to the Keep through the morning crowds, waving to people along the way and discussing matters of city business.  Anduin isn't only his heir, he is responsible for the running and care of Stormwind while its King is absent, and he’d picked up the skills fast.  He is a lot more patient than Varian, and has been a quick learner in the intricacies of politics and diplomacy.

Varian takes Anduin to the small park beside the Palace library and they settle onto a bench in one quiet corner.  Varian lets Anduin fill him on events while he’s been away, nothing particularly serious and Anduin had taken care of those things he could, and held over matters he thought his father needed to address.  Finally, Varian takes a deep breath and began.

“Son, I have to tell you something.  It’s important for you to know it now.  I really should have told you before but procrastination is something I’ve mastered of late.”  He takes his son’s hand in his, surprised as always by how small and soft it was in his big grasp.  So much like his mother.  “Do you know much about the Alpha/Omega condition?”

“Not much.”  Anduin’s blue eyes are puzzled.  “It’s sort of rare, isn’t it?”

“Very. I don't know the exact numbers, but I've only met a handful in my lifetime.  Things is – I’m one.  And not what you’d assume.  I’m..an Omega.”

Anduin digests the information, his head to one side, puzzlement radiating off him.  “So…you have to periodically, umm, have intimate relations with an Alpha?”

“Yes.”

“But…what about me?  How was I born.  Mother wasn’t..?”

“No.  If Alphas are rare, women Alphas are rarer still.  The combination of strength and the need to locate a suitable Omega mate make them very uncommon.  Your mother was a normal, like you.  And yes, that made it difficult to arrange your conception.  But she was a wonderful woman who was very dear to me, and with Khadgar’s help we managed to make you.”  He smiles and strokes his son’s blond head.  “Our most precious gift.”

Anduin stares at his shoes, fingers sliding out of his father’s grip.  “So how…I’m sorry, I don’t want to pry into private things…”

“None of this can be too private for you, it’s necessary you know.  In my case I found suitable partners at various times but recently that changed.  I became…attached…to an Alpha.  It’s a rather permanent attachment.  We are, in fact, mated.”

“Do I know her?”

“Him.”

“Oh.”  Anduin looks up, remarkably composed.  “Do I know him?”

“Ah…yes.  In fact you do.”  Varian stands and begins to pace, not looking at his son.  “It’s Garrosh Hellscream.”

He waits for the outburst, and when after some moments it doesn’t come, he turns anxiously.  Anduin is staring up at him in open-mouthed shock.

“Garrosh.  Hellscream.  The Orc.  The Horde Warchief.  THAT Garrosh?”

Varian nods slowly, hands held tightly behind his back.  “If you are astonished, disgusted, shamed, then it’s only what I felt the first time we had intimate relations…”

“Sex.  That’s the word father.  You had sex with Garrosh Hellscream.”

“Had.  Continued to have.  As I said, we’re mated.  But more than that, we are lifebonded.”  He sees Anduin’s confusion, the hint of distress and his heart twinges.  “It is not simply a matter of my wanting to be with him.  I MUST be with him.  I can release my heat to no other.  Without him I would reach my Heat, suffer intense pain, eventual insanity followed by a slow and terrible death.  I cannot be with another Alpha, only him.”

He knows it's unknown territory to his son but Anduin is bravely trying to cope, to understand.  “Do you mean that if anything happened to him, you’d die?”

“Yes.  And that’s one of the reasons I had to tell you now.  If anything did happen to him, it would be the end of me, though I’d finish myself in a way of my own choosing.  Should the worst happen you would inherit the throne, so you must be prepared for such an eventuality.  It'something that has always been possible,” he says as he reaches out again for Anduin's hand, “but this situation just adds to the chance.”

“Does Mathias Shaw know this?”

“Yes, he had to know because he puts his agents to watching us and I’d not want them risked trying to follow me into Horde territory.  Mathias will probably know if anything were to happen to me before anyone else did.  You should make use of him in such an event, he’s a good man.”

Anduin nods, eyes unfocused as he stares at his father’s hands.  “What is he like?  Garrosh.”

Varian grunts, lips twisting at one corner.  “Just as you’d imagine.  Normally he’s violent, unpredictable, vicious, aggressive – Light, is he aggressive.  He is also honourable by his own standards, and he cares for his people greatly.  When I am with him, though, he's different.  And it’s the other reason you needed to know.”  He sucks in a sharp breath.  “Anduin, I’m going to stay in Orgrimmar for a time.”

“What?  When?  How long for?”  Anduin pulls back his hand, straightening, alarmed at last.

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow, and I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.  Understand me, son, it’s important to do this.  Not only for me, but for the Alliance, and for the Horde as well.  When I am with him, Garrosh is a different orc.  He’s a lot calmer, more reasonable, less prone to violent outbursts and unreasonable behaviour.  My Omega aura quietens his tempers, soothes him.  When I am not with him his level of stress rises, and a stressed and anxious Warchief the Alliance can certainly do without.  He cannot come here, so I must go there.  If I can stay with him, I’m hopeful that in time I can get him to agree to making a permanent peace with the Alliance.  It won’t be easy,” he says, eyes unfocused as he stares out beyond the Keep walls, “but I must try.”

They sit in silence for a time, thinking on the way the world has changed for both of them.  Finally Anduin speaks, slowly, focused on his father’s face.  “I can’t say I’m in love with the idea of you going there, but I am very much in favour of peace.  I just wish it didn’t have this price.”

“Me too, son.  But hell, it’s a warrior’s lot to put themselves at risk for their people.”  He grins and slappes his son on the shoulder.  “I get to do it for both sides.  Not many Alliance leaders can say that!”

Anduin doesn't respond to that, but the shadowed concern in his eyes tells his father that he isn't’t taking much comfort from it. 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Garrosh watches the gryphon circling above Orgrimmar from the steps of the Hold.  The Windrider sweeps had been warned to stay clear and they do, holding at the perimeter of the outer walls as Varian’s bird glides earthwards.  He sniffs as it executes an elaborate wing pivot that swirls the red dust into a cloud as it sideslips to the ground.

“Braggart,” he mutters as the black gryphon backwings to a stop, its neck arching as it cries a challenge to the watching windriders.  It’s a big male, totally unafraid and it turns its head, fluffing out its crest as Varian slides from its saddle to the ground.  The King gives the bird a pat before turning to Garrosh.

The tight bundle of nerves in his chest dissolve at the sight of the tall human, dressed in comfortable leather and cloth, walking towards him.  He has a pack slung over his shoulder and moves with the familiar fearless stride.  A crowd has gathered to watch his arrival but he walks past it unconcerned, dumping the pack at Garrosh’s feet.  He grips his hands into fists to stop them from reaching out to pull Varian into him.   But he does smile, very slightly, looking down into the wide, blue eyes watching him – reading him, Garrosh knows, in the way that only this Omega can.

 “Is that all you brought?” he asks as he nudges the pack with his foot. 

“I travel light.”  Varian unclips his cloak and drapes it across one arm.  “Can you have your flight master attend to my bird please?  Just tell him to make sure he has plenty of ground corn handy for its feed, fresh water and don’t lodge him too near the windriders.  Oh, and if he wishes to make friends with Lasher, to offer him some live grubs.  He loves them.”

Garrosh signals for a messenger and Varian’s request is despatched.  “Anything else?”

“I’d kill for a cold beer and some lunch.”

“That I can provide.”  He grabs Varian's pack and they walk together to the nearby Inn, which Garrosh clears for their privacy.  He orders beer for both of them and bread, cheese, butter and meat for Varian.

“So tell me,” Garrosh asks, as he starts on his beer, “how did your meeting go?”

“About how you’d expect.”   Varian strips off his gloves, uses a cloth and a washbowl to clean them, then slices up some of the cold beef and adds it with a good slab of cheese and a swipe of butter, to the bread.  “Mekkatorque just stared at me through those odd goggles he wears and said nothing, though he did laugh rather lewdly during the course of the talks.  That gnome is a lot more perverted than I thought.”

Garrosh has to smile at the image.  “Odd little creatures, gnomes.  But what of the others?”

“Well, the dwarves were very loud and decided I was either potion-affected or drunk, or possibly both.  Tyrande was a lot more upset and demanded I accept a magic inspection to make sure I wasn’t under some form of delusion.  I let her do it just to prove a point, though I’m not sure it made her any happier.”

“That witch.”  Garrosh mutters insults into his mug.

“Hmm, well, she had my best interests at heart.  The Prophet took it fairly well, especially considering the draenei don’t have a very happy past with Orcs.  But I imagine all those centuries of travel through the universe have given him a wider perspective on  things.  And as for Genn…”

Garrosh bears his teeth in expectation.  “Happy for you, was he?”

“Hardly at all.  He started frothing.  Yes, that sort of frothing.  The other leaders gave him space – which is a diplomatic way of saying they backed off in case he went crazy.  But he didn’t, though he did want me put in chains and locked up somewhere for my own safety.  Logic doesn’t stand much of a chance when Genn Greymane goes feral.  I just had to wait out his anger until he cooled down enough to see reason.”  Varian made an exasperated grunt, which seemed way too much emotion spent on a creature like Greymane.  “He calmed down by the close, though he still thought me insane.  He did offer me his best dagger as a going away gift.  He suggested I shove it in Sylvanas at a suitably fatal spot.” 

 _No great loss_ is Garrosh’s instinctive thought.  He has never liked the Undead leader, nor trusted her, but while she stayed loyal to the Horde and obedient to his orders, he’d tolerate her.  But there was one important person in Varian’s life he’d not mentioned.  “What of your son?”

“Ah.  That was the most difficult talk.  Anduin loves me, as I do him, so everything coming together at the one time – my Omega status, you, my leaving – it shook him badly.”  He takes a mouthful of the beer and wipes his mouth across the back of his hand, clearing his throat in what Garrosh suspects is more than simple thirst.  “All kinds of emotions there to deal with but he’s a strong lad and now that he is actively Regent of Stormwind, he’ll need to handle the pressures of crises and powerful emotions.  Talking of which,” he says, staring down into the mug, “I’m no longer leader of the Alliance.”

Garrosh jerks upright.  “What!”

“The council felt it safer to remove me from that position, given that I would be in the hands of the Horde for an unknown period of...”

“Scum! Do they think I torture you, that I’d force you to betray them and shame you in such a way?!  Utter fools!” Anger locks him rigidly upright, and he seethes at the insult to his honour, not to mention the nausea the idea of doing that to Varian stirs in his gut.

Varian reaches out to lay a hand on his arm, and the warm touch of that hand settles his shivering anger.  “It isn’t easy to overcome the habits and thoughts of a lifetime.  You, better than anyone, should know that.”  The fingers stroke down his arm to his wrist and he folds his fingers around the smaller hand, reflexively careful.  “They have to consider the good of their people.  And besides,” he says with a smile lighting his eyes, “they don’t know how good I am at resisting your hideous torture.”

Garrosh bends closer to run his mouth across Varian’s throat.  “Yet my ability to make you scream is the stuff of legends…”


	12. Chapter 12

Most days are good, or at least not entirely vile.  It takes some weeks for Varian to settle in, to become accustomed to being, in effect, part of the Horde, but in a very specialised role.  He has no real authority, no title or position other than Garrosh’s mate.  While the Horde racial leaders had more-or-less accepted his presence, still Varian frequently finds himself unsettled and adrift.  He is accustomed to being busy, to have people constantly seeking him out for decisions and orders, to plan and organise, fulfilling a complex and ever-changing  role.  Now, he has no specific thing to do.  It puts him on edge, makes him itchy for action of some sort.  For work, for something useful to occupy his days.

And although he and Garrosh muddle along fairly well together, now and then they clash.  Despite Varian’s calming influence Garrosh is volatile, unaccustomed to sharing power and unused to being tactful or careful.  Sometimes his nature overcomes his sense…

“I said no!  I am Warchief of the Horde.  I will decide what the Horde does in this matter!”

They are standing in the big conference room, with various Horde officers present, all of whom are watching Garrosh and Varian in tense expectation of a clash. 

They are standing very close and both of them are angry.

“Did I say you were not?”  Varian twitches his shoulders, chest heaving with the effort to restrain his temper.  “I offered you advice – sensible advice – which you are completely ignoring.”

“Are you saying,” Garrosh says, eyes narrowed and nostrils twitching, “that I am being…unsensible?”

“There is no such word as unsensible but if there were, you would be.  Making plans to invade Ashenvale is foolishness.  You are asking for the Night Elves to respond in force!”

“I don’t give a kobold’s arse if they respond in force!  Let them!”  Garrosh grinds his teeth, spittle running down his tusks. “The Horde needs timber and the Ashenvale forests are a huge resource right on our borders.  They refuse to allow us to cut the trees but we must have wood!  For our buildings, our fires, to cook our food, to make our fences and wagons and – damn it – we need the wood!”  He snorts, striding back and forth in front of Varian.  “We live in a damned wilderness with virtually no trees, the wood must come from somewhere!”

Varian snarls, a guttural vicious sound that has the weapon hand of every orc present going to their sides.  Even Garrosh reacts to it, swelling even larger against the challenge.  “I am not blind,” Varian hisses.  “But you have Azshara right outside your fucking back gate!  Why not take the trees from there!  Why invade an area that is under Tyrande’s care?”

Garrosh swings around and throws out one hand.  “Eitrigg!  Explain it to this idiot!”

The old orc stands and walks quietly to Varian, dipping his head to the King.  “Sir, the trees of Azshara are mostly useless to us.  The woodworkers call them ironwood; they are nearly impossible to cut or work.  And those trees that can be used are far across the area, so the wood must be transported through areas rife with Naga and other dangers.  We have lost hundreds of peons and warriors trying to farm it, for little benefit.  Ashenvale’s trees are perfect for our needs and it has the benefit of being close, with a river to provide extra transport of the wood if needed.”

Garrosh waves one hand and nods wordlessly in a gesture of “there!” that Varian understands.  He sucks in a steadying breath.  “Thank you Eitrigg.  Could you have not told me that in the first place, instead of ranting at me?”

“I should not have to explain.  I do not act for no reason.  We must have wood.  If the Night Elves refuse to back off and let us get it, then I will cut them down as well!  And anyone else,” he snarls, eyes narrowed, “who gets in my way!”

Varian realises that if he stays another moment, he’s likely to lash out from sheer frustration.  He turns without a word and stalks out of the chamber, down the stairs and out into the fresh air.  He ignores the calls from Garrosh and heads off at a trot towards the Tauren compound.  There is a small lake there and he sits beside it with his back to a wall, and throws pebbles into the water.  But it takes a long time to find some calm, and he wonders if he made the right decision coming to Orgrimmar.  Yes, he needs to be with Garrosh for his Heat, and living with him has made the Warchief calmer – but not always.  Sometimes his nature overwhelms even Varian’s Omega influence.  Sometimes Garrosh can’t help being what he is.

And he misses his home.  He misses riding out through Elwynn Forest on a spring morning with the light dappling the ground and touching the dew so that it sparkles.  He misses Stormwind’s white walls and tower banners waving in the wind.  He misses his son.

Warriors don’t weep, nor do Kings, so he doesn’t but the sadness of simply not being home chokes him.  He shivers, though the air that stirs the hairs across his face is hot and dusty.   _Wallowing in misery like a homesick child, how pathetic.  I know,  I’ll go and slap a suitable orc and get into a fight.  That will deflate the mood._

But before he can act on it he senses the throb of an Alpha behind him, the familiar feeling washing over him.  He can taste all kinds of emotions; anger, tension, an itching need to lash out – and something else, something almost smothered by the more primal feelings.  A big hand lights on the top of his head and its twitching.

“I’m not much in the mood for talking,” he says as Garrosh lands next to him with a thump.

“You were earlier.”

“Well, I’m not now.  You sucked all the words out of me.”

“I’m not…I’m not like you.  I’m not human.  I’m an orc.  Been one all my life.”

He can’t help it: he laughs.  “Humour, from a big stupid lump.”  He turns his head, looks into watchful, shadowed amber eyes.  “What do you want, Garrosh?”

“Once, I’d have said the world.  Now – I don’t know. Maybe for my people to survive, for our babies to grow up strong and healthy.  For my father’s spirit to be proud of me, and to join him at the end knowing I’ve been the best Warchief the Horde’s ever had.  And to have you, until then.  Not so much to want.”

He settled himself against Garrosh as an arm much the same colour as the earth they sit on is wrapped around him.  “No, not so much to ask.”  Garrosh cannot say what he feels, cannot say _I’m sorry_ because Orc’s don’t even have a word in their tongue for ‘apology’.  All he can do is touch, rest his head against Varian’s and let his body share the closest thing he has to the words.


	13. Chapter 13

There is a small opening high on the wall that barely passes for a window, but it’s enough to let in some light when the sun is up.  At night, with no torches or candles, the room is pitch-black but he can still see some stars out through the tiny window.  He can watch the sun’s slow rise each day, the square of light tracking across the floor and up the wall.  It’s how he’s noted the passage of days, scratching a mark on the bracelet around his right wrist with his teeth.  There are thirteen of them now, and he thinks numbly that he’ll have to switch to the left one soon, when he runs out of space for more marks.

Thirteen days since his capture.  A week since he’d last been fed and the hunger gnaws at his gut when he thinks of it.  And even when he doesn’t.   Each day he’s given a cup of foul water, the only thing that adds any potential days to the remainder of his life.  Death would have come a lot sooner without water, even though what he’s given to drink stinks and makes him gag.  He’d vomit, if he had anything but the water to bring up.

The chains attached to the bracelets keep his arms apart, so that he can’t quite bring his hands together.  He can sit, can twist a little but is otherwise forced to lie on the dirty floor with his back against the cage bars.

He shifts in place, hissing as he scrapes against the infected sores on the back of his legs, his buttocks and back.  When he’d had anything left in his bowels he’d peed and shat himself because there was nowhere to do his business, even if he’d been able to move.  The filth had entered his wounds and he wondered what would kill him first: hunger, infection – or the Heat.

_A few days maybe.  I’m due now but the hunger and pain have probably delayed it somewhat._   As he twists to try and find a more comfortable position – even though it just means moving from one swollen sore to another – he groans as he forgets and turns an ankle.  Both of them had been broken on the first day of his capture, to keep him from having any chance at escape.  They’d become swollen and, with no way to set them, they were twisted and the joints were malformed.   Oddly, his captors had not hurt him otherwise, simply stripped him, chained him to the cage and left him alone.

Which in a way is its own sort of torture, because in that quiet, foul place he can sense the slow approach of his own destruction.  It’s the fate he’s dreaded since the first time he found out what he was and how his state affected him.  But worrying about it would do no good so Varian sags back further into the bars and closes his eyes, to remember the last time he’d seen the one person who can save him from the death drawing inexorably closer….

 

His relationship with Varian notwithstanding, Garrosh has no love for, or trust in, the Alliance.  Varian doesn’t push him in that way because the Warchief is nothing if not stubborn.  But if he cannot achieve a good result through force, he has to try more indirect means.  For the first time in his life, Varian has to be subtle.  

Subtlety isn’t one of his usual skills but it’s the only way he can reach Garrosh and convince him to take a more conciliatory approach.  And he doesn’t always succeed.  Through the weeks of dealing with Deathwing’s assaults upon Azeroth, of the damage caused across the world – not only to Alliance territory but also to Horde – Garrosh’s anger grows.  Infuriated by not being able to strike directly at the cause of his problems, he would sometimes take it out on more available targets.

And at such times, talking often didn’t help…

“If you curse me one more time in that manner, I’ll rip your top right tusk off and shove it up your arse!”

They are standing very close and the air seems to vibrate with their anger.  Garrosh snarls, eyes narrowing as his fists clench.  “You threaten me!  Me, in my own hall, in front of my own people!”

“Certainly, why not.  I’ll threaten you out in the main square if you like, so more people can hear.  I don’t care that much how you talk to your own, but don’t swear at me because you’re wrong!”  Varian stamped one foot on a nearby small table, crushing it.  “And don’t frigging tell me you aren’t wrong because we BOTH know you are!”

Varian sees him raise a fist and thinks – _he is going to hit me!_ – and then he does, the fist slamming into Varian’s chest before he can dodge it.  He is thrown backwards by the force and slams into a wall.  The wall cracks, dust drifting downwards and Varian staggers upright, shaking with shock.  Garrosh had never struck him in anger before. 

He can’t think of a single thing to say and he think if he tries to speak he’ll lose all control.  Hardly aware of the flushed alarm on the Warchief’s face, he turns stiffly and limps out of the room.  The only alternative is to strike back and that isn’t an alternative at all.  It’s closure.

Varian whistles down his gryphon and mounts it, flying up to one of the cliffs above Orgrimmar.  There is a ledge to the north that looks out over the ocean and he lands there, climbing off the bird to sit with his legs dangling over the edge.  His first impulse is to get  back on and fly back to Stormwind, to get as far away from Garrosh and the Horde and the heat and the dust and … just to go home. 

_And what then?  Wait a few weeks and die?  That’s flouncing off in a rather fatal fashion._ But he’d always known it wouldn’t be easy.  They are both strong, tempestuous people accustomed to command, and unaccustomed to being answerable.   He thinks that they need a break from each other, need to be apart to release some of the tensions that had grown.  So he remounts and rides back down to where Garrosh stands waiting outside the main Hold doorway.  He makes to speak as Varian dismounted but the King stops him.

“No.  I don’t want to talk about it now.  I’m going back to Stormwind for a while, to visit Anduin and take a break.  We both need to take a break.”  He’d deliberately not looked into Garrosh’s face but he doesn’t need to – he can sense the distress radiating through the Alpha’s aura.  Garrosh is still angry but it is all muddled up with concern for Varian and annoyance at himself.  That, at least, was something new.

“I’ll be back in time.  Just…” and he shakes his head, glancing up into that intent amber gaze.  “…be careful.”

Garrosh grunts and blinks.  Varian can tell how much he wants to reach out and touch, but he doesn’t and the effort makes the big orc sigh.  With a last nod, Varian mounts and flies up to board the zeppelin that will fly him across to Undercity.  He could have taken the ride to Stranglethorn but the trip there is longer and he wants time to think on the flight south to Stormwind.

And it’s on his way there, when he flies a little too close to Twilight Highlands, that a flight of Twilight Hammer warriors surround him and beat him to the ground, killing his bird and taking him into a captivity that painfully, inexorably, is killing him.

_They’d been talking about sending teams in Twilight Highlands, scouting groups to assess whether the orc forces there would be willing to join the Horde to fight against the Twilights Hammer._

_“…and some of Kormok’s rogues are good at sneaking around and digging up information.”  As he finishes the last of his hot mead, Garrosh eyes Varian hopefully.  “How are you feeling?”_

_Varian can’t help but grin.  While he has no sex drive outside Heat, an Alpha is a very different matter.  They are always active and ready for sex and he often has to ease his partner’s own need with a little tactile assistance.  His lack of arousal doesn’t bother him, and it certainly doesn’t bother his partner, who finds the sight of Varian taking his cock into his mouth almost as exciting as his being on Heat.  “I’m feeling fine, thank you for asking.”  He smothers a grin at Garrosh’s disappointed sigh.  “Still weeks to go yet, you poor, oversexed, deprived orc Alpha.”_

_“Hmph.”  He grunts unhappily, then sucks in a breath as a clever human hand slips inside his pants.  His nostrils twitch.  “We are in a public place, in case you hadn’t noticed.”_

_“I had, in fact, noticed.”  Varian slides onto his lap, hands wandering over his chest, thighs and groin.  “Worries you, does it?  I should stop, should I?”_

_Garrosh has large hands.  Those hands can crush metal, break bone, tear flesh apart.  But when applied to Varian they are as gentle as an orc can be, this orc especially.  He has learned to temper his strength because, although Varian is very strong for a human, still he has none of the muscle bulk and thick skin of an orc.  So those hands cradle his head with a gently possessive touch that never ceases to surprise Varian.  That something so large could be almost tender is a revelation.  His Omega aura swirls around his mate and Garrosh’s eyes start to close as he mutters nonsense and pulls Varian near.  It is as close as they can come to lovemaking, this sensual connection both indefinable and instinctive…_

 

He wakes to the memory of that touch, to the reality of pain.  His Heat is on him and he is locked in a cage without hope of easing it.  The dream-memory is a kind of torture because it shows him what he does not have.  Hope of relief.  So he sits up and forces himself to think, to try and find a way out.  It was pointless, he’d done it many times before but it gave him something to concentrate on beyond his slow progress towards destruction.  And he sends off a wish into the void, that Garrosh is out there somewhere looking for him…soon…it will need to be soon…


	14. Chapter 14

Garrosh is lying on his stomach on a rise overlooking a valley full of Twilights Hammer forces.  It is a scene of chaos: the carcasses of dragons hang from spikes and poles in various stages of dismemberment, huts and buildings are scattered, ill-made and ugly, among hillocks covered with rubbish and reeking fires.  This had been a respected orc clan, the Hammers, until Cho’gall twisted it into a cult.  And somewhere down there, in amongst the filth and shadowed evil, is Varian.

The little rogue next to him shifts silently, studying the encampment through a spyglass.  “Nasty bunch, these ones.  And suspicious too.  Took me and my people a day to get through without being found.  It’s like market day in a madhouse down there.”

Garrosh snorts, snatching  the spyglass from the goblin’s hands.  He usually doesn’t have a lot of time for goblins, who value their gold above honour – but this one had proven useful.  As far as sneaking went, the combination of goblin cunning and rogue skill is unmatched.  They’d spent days working their way towards the encampment after ferreting out the fact that a human warrior prisoner of value had been taken there.  It was the best lead Garrosh had after weeks of fruitless searching.

But getting in to where Shamzat confirmed Varian was most likely being held wasn’t going to be simple.  The area was like a nest of cockroaches, with Twilight Hammer forces all over it.  One wrong step and he’d be dead, or in chains.  And despite how much he wants to, he knows aggressive force would only likely end in Varian’s immediate death.  That leaves … sneaking.

And the idea of crawling in like an insect makes his bile rise.  Sneaking goes against everything he isand believes in.  But it is stealthy action, or let him die.  And that isn’t something he is prepared to do.  Garrosh has come to realise that there were a great many unpleasant  things he’d see as necessary to keep Varian alive.

Rolling over onto his back, Garrosh thought of Varian, and time.

 _Three weeks.  It’s been three weeks since he went missing.  And when he left Orgrimmar he had about two weeks to go for the start of the Heat._   It was a depressing calculation.  If he was one week into Heat he’d be in bad condition, assuming he wasn’t otherwise injured.  But it had taken the three weeks to track him down, backtracking from Stormwind along his potential routes, checking out rumours and dead ends until one of his scouting parties had come across the rotting corpse of a gryphon.  Garrosh had recognised it as Varian’s from a few feathers and the markings on the torn bridle.  The fact that it was found in a field not far from the edge of the Twilight Highlands was a bad sign.  And it had taken time for the rogue scouts to confirm that he was, indeed, held captive there.

 Sliding further back down the rise, he pushes the worry aside in the need to plan.  “So, did you find what I asked for?”

Shamzat nods and hands over a large pack.  “Yes sir.  Though I have to tell you,” he finishes with a cheeky grin, “dressing an orc isn’t one of my normal skills.”

Garrosh gives a brief, unwilling snort of laughter as he grabs the pack.  He’d come to like the little rogue.  Shamzat had proven clever, quick and cunning and surprisingly fearless.  He’d thought he might need to reconsider his attitude to goblins and their place in the Horde.

He undoes the pack and pulls out a bundle of cloth.  When he holds it up he snorts in distaste.  “It’s a robe!”

“Yes sir.  Lots of them Twilight Hammer orcs wear robes.  Figured it would cover you up and you could hide a weapon underneath it.”

It’s sensible, but he knows he’ll look ridiculous in it, even so.  Stripping off down to his shirt and pants, Garrosh drags the smelly robe over his head and ties it around himself with the attached cloth belt.  The cloak provided also has a hood which he pulls up and over his head.  “Well, do I look the part?” he asks as he stands with his arms folded together over his chest.

Shamzat grins, standing with his hands on his hips.  “Perfect.  Bit on the big side – most of them seem average-sized for orcs, maybe they are underfed or something.  But not enough to be a problem if you hunch forward and look down when you walk.  Good way to hide your face, as well, in case anyone who knows what you look like sees you.”

Garrosh practices shambling around, hunched over until the rogues are satisfied.  The rest of the party has prepared itself for the incursion – Shamzat had another goblin rogue with him, along with a troll mage, and a young troll druid.  The others had various methods of travelling unseen – Garrosh doesn’t so he has to try and blend in as much as possible.  They wait until sunset then set off down the hill and into the encampment.  While the others flit from shadow to shadow, Garrosh shambles along, hunched over and looking down as much as possible, but following their whispered instructions on direction.  None of the Twilight Hammer followers seem interested in him at all and he finally makes it through to the entrance with a ramp just inside leading down.  There are two guards at the door and one of them raises an axe and thrusts it out in front of Garrosh.

“Stop!  Do you have a pass to enter?”

Garrosh lifts his head and his lip curls.  “Step aside, maggot.”

The guard, a large male orc, bristles.  “Don’t you speak..”

“I said – step aside or I’ll rip your ugly head off.”  It's the voice of one unaccustomed to asking anything of anyone and the orc recognises it on a primal level.  He steps back and lowers his axe, seems about to say something and thinks better of it.  Garrosh grunts and walks by him; the rest of the party had slid inside while Garrosh had the guard’s attention.

As soon as he descends the ramp, Garrosh begins to sense Varian’s presence.  It’s faint, uncomfortable but the pressure in his chest eases as he realises his mate is alive.  He instinctively turns towards that faint, tantalizing presence, ignoring anyone he passes, drawn on towards it unerringly.  He climbs a set of stairs to an upper level built into the side of the hill and finally comes to a door.  Its locked but without any guards and while that worries him on one level, the pained aura now vibrating along his nerves pushes the concern aside.  He signals silently at the door and Shamzat materialises and works the lock open.  Then he is inside and he staggers to a stop, shuddering at the waves of distress coming from across the room.

Varian is lying on the floor inside a cage, chained, in the filthy tattered remains of clothing.  His moist, wide eyes are fixed on Garrosh, his face flushed as he tries to drag himself towards the bars of his cage.

Before Garrosh can move noise erupts from behind him.  He crouches and swivels around to see a large group of armed figures pushing forward through the doorway.  With a roar he reefs off the robe and snatches the two short axes he’d earlier tucked into his belt and stands, feet apart and teeth bared.  From the corner of his eyes he sees Shamzat duck out the door and disappear and he thinks _Goblins, I was right all along, the little cowards_ and then he is overwhelmed by the pack.  He sees the trolls go down and although his axes slice through and into multiple bodies the sheer numbers are too much for him in the small space.  Finally he’s battered down and into unconsciousness…

He comes awake to the feel of a sharp, hard smack to his face.  Garrosh flinches and opens his eyes as another smack stings across his cheeks.

“Wake up, pig.”

His eyes flash open and focus on a robed orc standing in front of him.  The orc’s features are venomously twisted into a smile of satisfaction.  “Ah there you are, Warchief.  Back with us at last.  It was good of you to join us, we’d been hoping you would.  It was why we kept that creature alive,” he says, flicking a finger towards Varian.  “We’d heard of your deviant relationship with him.  Capturing him was providential.”  As the orc steps backwards, Garrosh tries to surge towards him, but it’s then he realises his arms are held up over head to either side of his body, secured against a wall by metal wristguards linked to chains.  His ankles are shackled as well; he can do no more than writhe in impotent fury.

“Release me from here and fight me fairly, dog.”

“Oh, why would I do that?  You’re assuming I hold to those ridiculous old orcish traditions. Far from it.  I prefer those of my own people, where might and control and power are the only things that matter.  I have the power and control now.” He smiles, his shadowed eyes gleaming.  “ But I should introduce myself.  I am Twilight Lord Kelris.  And I cannot tell you how fine a thing it is to not only hold the King of Stormwind, but the Warchief of the Horde as well.  I have such plans for you both, starting with that’s ones death.”  He glances towards Varian, who is lying pressed to the bars, shuddering with Heat fever.  “Not that he’ll last much longer.  These Omega are strange creatures.  Imagine having your existence defined by your sex drive.  Such an odd vulnerability.”  He walks towards Varian and bends to run a hand over the man’s tangled hair.  “I'll leave you chained there, so close to him, and you will watch him pass his last days.  I’m told a deprived Heat death is intensely painful, and that they often lose their minds before the end.”  He pulls Varian’s head up by the hair and looks down into his eyes.  “Yes, it should be…educational.”

He lets Varian's head drop and stands, wiping a hand on his robe.  With a final satisfied smirk, he turns and leaves and the door is locked behind him.

Garrosh clenches his jaw, arches upwards and grabs the chains, and pulls.  His muscles shudder as he wrenches the metal, fighting to tear the chains from the wall.  He works at them with ferocious intent, grinding and twisting the chains, trying to weaken them where they are connected to the wall - but whether from being set deeply or from some magical strengthening, they don't weaken or break.  He lets them go and drops back down,  fury making him snarl and spit.  “Bastard, honourless curs, gutless pieces of SHIT!”

“Do you…have to be…so …loud…”

He sags down, suddenly aware of Varian’s pain.  It swamps everything else in that moment.  Garrosh has never sensed anything like it, even during Varian’s first time in Orgrimmar.  This isn’t just a need, it’s an agony.

Varian is lying on his side, pressed against the bars, one hand pushed through the gap as far as his own bindings will allow.  They can’t touch, they are feet apart but still the King’s body stretches towards him as if he can will himself to Garrosh by force of mind alone.  Garrosh doesn’t need to ask how long he has, he knows that Varian will be lucky to last another day.  His body is on fire with need and its rapidly eating his life energies.

Guilt is what he feels right then.  If it hadn’t been for his stupid pride, this wouldn’t have happened.  It was his pride and anger that drove Varian away and it is killing him now, and there isn’t a thing Garrosh can do about it.  “I’m…sorry.”

Damp, agonised eyes looked up at him, barely able to focus.  “It’s..I know…can you…if you get out…tell Anduin..love him…”  He shudders suddenly, wracked with cramping, and wails, a high, choked sound that he fights to silence but can’t quite manage.  Then his body slumps as he passes out.

Through the remains of the night, and into the following day, Garrosh watches his mate gradually fading away before his eyes.  His own rage grows, his mind becoming consumed by it as the pounding agony of the Heat aura sucks away thought.  At some stage he notes his wrists are mangled from struggling against the bindings, that blood is running down his arms in sticky streams.  He cares nothing for it, not for his bitten lips, his bruised and torn ankles and legs, the pain from his feet where he has thrashed against the wall.  There is nothing in his world now but Varian’s anguish and a fury he cannot release.

So it takes some time to realise that someone is talking to him.  He finally focuses on the small figure standing just outside his range.

It’s the goblin rogue.

He snarls and lunges, is jerked backwards by the chains, and Shamzat slaps a hand over his own mouth to smother a shriek.  “Gods of profit, Warchief, don’t do that!  I’m here to rescue you, for Light’s sake!”

“You..you ran…”

“Of course I did, I woulda been history if I hadn’t.  I had to get out and get help.”  He reaches behind him and pulls forward a short, plump, robed goblin.  “There here is my normally useless brother Orafell.  He was a total shame to the family because, after generations of rogues, he goes and trains to be a mage.  He was off scrounging…”

“That’s ‘researching’, brother!”

“Fine, researching up in a Karazhan, so I had to go and grab him.  Now, let me take a look at those locks on you…”

“Wait!”  Orafell pushes his brother out of the way.  “If those nasty Twilight Hammer mages didn’t put some sort of magic on these bindings, I’ll be a monkey's brother.  Lemme look…”  He steps closer to a panting Garrosh and wafts his hands above the locks to the bindings on the Warchief’s ankles.  “Yeah, I thought so.  Anti-tamper spells.  You’d have lost a hand if you’d touched ‘em.”

“So, can you fix the damned things?”

Orafell snorts and winds up his sleeves.  “Is Gallywix affluent?  Of course I can.  Now stand back and let an expert work here.”  After some deft hand waving and garbled chanting, he moves aside.  “Alright, work your own magic, brother.  I’ll do the same for the wrist ones.”  He chants again and drifts upwards, removing the spells on the wrist bindings.  Then he backs away and elevates his brother up to work the locks.

Garrosh sags as the wrist bindings slip open, then staggers over to Varian.  He lays a shaking hand on the man’s head where it lies on the floor.  “Get him out.  Now!”

The goblin mage removes the trap spells on the cage and lock and Shamzat opens the locks to allow Garrosh inside.  He reaches down to gather Varian to him – touch transmits the Heat’s overload with even more intensity and he starts to shake.  “Can you…port us..to Orgrimmar?”

“Absolutely.”  The little mage spins his hands and the familiar glow of the portal forms around him.  “Let’s get the fuck outta here!”


	15. Chapter 15

Varian will always remember very little of the escape from Twilight Highlands.   By the time Garrosh broke into his cell, Varian was almost delirious from the effects of a withheld Heat release.  He recalls flashes of memory; seeing and sensing Garrosh’s arrival, the anguish of his inability to reach him through the bars, the final terrible slide towards madness and death, knowing he was there and unable to touch him.  It was the stuff of nightmares.

And then, almost as fast as the long slide had been slow, they were gone from there and back in Orgrimmar.  Again, his memory is shattered; he recalls being carried into the Hold while Garrosh yells for healers.  Just being held by the Warchief gives him comfort, the Alpha aura wrapped around him staves off the worst effects for a time.  And when he’s laid on the bed, with the healers pumping treatment into him, finally, thankfully, Garrosh gives him the relief he so desperately needs.  There is nothing sensual or delightful or erotic about that coupling – it was as much an act of healing as that being done by the druids and priests on his body.  But it saves his life and sanity, and he is able to drift into a healing sleep, held in big arms, released at last from the worst pain of his life.

 

Garrosh is sitting up in his bed, his back resting against cushions propped behind him against the wall.  The healers had seen to his hurts after tending to Varian.  He’d been in a bad way, not just from the Heat but from his other injuries and a nearly fatal dose of blood poisoning.  Only his enormous resilience had kept him alive.  Stubbornness, Garrosh thinks, is occasionally useful.

Varian is lying between his legs, his back against Garrosh chest and stomach, sound asleep.  There’d been no time to clean him up, or Garrosh either; it was the least of their concerns.  Later there’d be time for a good soaking bath, some food and water, more rounds of healing.  Right then the healers had said that sleep was what he needed. 

One of the druids came to his side, bowing her head in salute.  “Warchief”, she says softly, “we’ll come back later to do more.  If he worsens or you need anything…”

“Yes.  How is he?”

The druid, an elderly Tauren, touches Varian’s head lightly.  “It was a close thing.  He was very weak.  But we feel the wounds will heal perfectly and we controlled the infection.  But one thing you should know – this has weakened his Omega systems badly.  You both must make sure he is not put under any stress again.  A repeat of anything like this would likely prove fatal.”  She nods at his worried look.  “Yes.  No more separations, especially when close to his time.”  With a small bow, she leaves.

Varian stirs against him, not waking but turning on his side, his face against Garrosh’s chest.  As he is about to try and get some sleep a head pokes around the doorframe.  He sees the blond hair and concerned blue eyes of Varian’s son, and gestures with one slightly raised hand.

Anduin walks in, his steps quiet and graceful.  “Warchief,” he says, very softly, not taking his eyes of his father’s face.  “I appreciate you letting me see him.”  He carefully sits on the edge of the bed and obviously wants to reach out to his father, but stops himself and lets his hand rest on his thigh.  “Is he…”

“Much better.  He’s just asleep.”  Garrosh runs one hand slowly down Varian’s arm where it lies across his stomach.  “He…misses you, I think.  But you know that.”

Anduin nods, with the look of someone who has lost a great many night’s sleep.  He finally takes his eyes off his father and looks up into Garrosh’s face.  “Thank you.  For saving him.  I am in your debt.”

Once, having the Prince of Stormwind say that would have been a coup.  Now it was a shared bond, son to his father’s mate.  They sit together in silence for a while as Varian sleeps, and when he eventually leaves, it is with an invitation to return when his father is up to a visit.  He goes away much happier than he'd been when he’d arrived, which would have been strange at any other time, and in any other life.  Lately, Garrosh’s life has become very strange indeed.

At some time during the night Varian wakes and stirs against him, a little stronger, and still hungry for him.  That hunger is something he will never tire of feeding, just as he’ll never tire of waking up with Varian’s skin against his.  This time there’s more passion, more time to touch and stroke, to cover the resilient, hardy human body with his lips and his hands, to draw out the Heat in a way that only he can, and to satisfy his mate so utterly that when they finally join, it’s difficult to tell that he’d ever wanted anyone else in his bed, and in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had SO much fun writing this. Thanks for all the support and lovely comments.

**Author's Note:**

> Threading the needle: To find harmony or strike a balance between conflicting forces.


End file.
